


Reunion

by CaptainSaku



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slavery mention but no depiction, pure unadulterated angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSaku/pseuds/CaptainSaku
Summary: It's been a very long time since the Inquisitor last saw or heard from his former lover, Ludovico. Now, in the midst of the events of Inquisition, Vi shows up at Skyhold. It doesn't go as well as expected.
Relationships: Inquisitor Adaar/Original Character, Male Inquisitor/Original Character, Noam Adaar/Ludovico Spina





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a gift for @caffeinatedrogue on Tumblr. It was originally going to be a birthday present, but I finished it two months too early and I'm completely incapable of sitting on my hands and not posting it, so here we are ;P 
> 
> Huge shoutout to ksilverland for giving this a once-over and being my ever-wonderful beta reader!

He had thought that nothing could be worse than slavery. For four years he had been bound and chained, living in constant fear, a fear so deep, so primal, that it had seeped into his very bones and made its home there. He had become so deeply acquainted with it that its absence now left him feeling almost… empty. _Wrong_. For four years he had been tortured, used in unspeakable ways, made to bow and beg and grovel, to wash and clean and shovel and… the list was endless. 

And it had been a kindness. Four years in Tevinter had taught him that things could have been much, _much_ worse.

He had thought that nothing could be worse than slavery, and he had been unspeakably wrong.

A year ago, he had lost Lucretia. Sweet, dearest Lucretia. He hoped, perhaps against hope, that she and Gael were well, somewhere with a Master as good and kind as his own had been. Kinder, even.

A man could hope.

He would never forget the screams as they were separated, his sister and nephew sold to some other magister, whipped and threatened into submission. The screaming had stopped almost instantly. The sound had been his lullaby ever since, haunted his dreams, served as the backdrop to his sorry excuse for a life. If it could be called a life at all. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw their faces, wide-eyed and tear-stained and _terrified_. 

And he had been powerless to stop it, any of it.

_Fuck._

Ludovico crawled into the inn, feeling weak and frail. He was hungry. He was thirsty. His skin was taut and starting to crack, the unforgiving desert sun having tanned and dried it until it was more like leather than skin at all. His feet hurt, the soles of his shoes nearly worn through. His clothes hung on him as though he was a scarecrow; he no longer filled his shirts or pants, held up precariously with a piece of string, and when he washed himself, if he ever got that chance at all, he could no longer feel corded muscle under his fingers, but rather the hard jut of his own ribcage.

But he had made it. He had crossed the Silent Plains and reached Hasmal, a safe haven after days of traversing endless plains of fine sand that burned his feet in the mornings and made sure to keep him cold and shivering during the nights. But he was _alive_. 

And he would get his family back.

***

 _Fuck_ the Free Marches.

It had taken him two weeks to recover and regain his strength. The innkeeper, Edda, was no stranger to escaped slaves, and had offered him room and board in exchange for work once he could stand.

He had accepted the offer. It was all he had. He had not a penny to his name, no more clothes than the tattered rags on his back, no… nothing. He was as poor as a pauper and no trick in his books would help him out until he regained his strength. He could barely muster even an ounce of charm to keep the patrons entertained. He couldn’t stand the pitying looks he knew some gave him when they thought he wasn’t looking. He was eternally grateful to Edda, but he couldn’t get out of Hasmal fast enough.

What a shithole.

And now, as though his life wasn’t bad enough already, a gaping hole had been torn in the sky, stormy green clouds swirling around an electrified eye. It looked vile. And it was absolutely, pants-shittingly terrifying. For days, they hadn’t heard of what had happened, what it was. Those hadn’t been good days, for business or for pleasure.

And then the news had come. First about the death of Divine Justinia, may the Maker rest her soul, then about some organization stepping up to “close the rift.” The Inquisition, they called themselves. Just what Thedas needed, some new force to vie for power and prominence while the entire world just went to shit under their feet. Or, rather, over their heads, he supposed.

Ludovico heaved a heavy sigh as he piled dirty plates and set about wiping clean a table that had just been vacated, contemplating his options and how he might move forward. Snippets of conversation reached his ears; he was usually good about ignoring idle chat, or pretending to ignore it, at the very least. This time, however, he heard something that made him freeze half-wipe.

“… some qunari bastard. Adaar, they say he’s called.” A portly man with a pot belly grunted and drained his tankard, gesturing for one of the girls to bring him more. He knew the man; he was a local, and a regular too. 

“Of all the people they could have picked as leader, they went and chose a _qunari_?” His companion, a gangly-looking reed of a man with a pock-marked face and a few missing teeth, carried on. Judging by his accent, he wasn’t a Marcher. “Just our luck. We’re all going to die.”

“Worse. They’re calling him the Herald of Andraste.” Portly Man sat back and crossed his arms, making the chair creak. “Can you believe it? Like any filthy qunari oaf would ever have anything to do with our Lady.”

Ludovico bit his lip to stop himself from saying anything stupid, and made an effort to unclench his fist, flexing his fingers to loosen them up. No way. It couldn’t be Noam. … could it? Tipping his head ever-so-slightly to hear better, he pretended to go back to wiping.

“But that’s heresy!” Gangly Man complained, slapping the table with a flat palm. “Herald of Andraste? Are you sure?”

“Do I look like I’m lying, Dav? I’m tellin’ ya, I heard he’s seven feet tall, built and toned. They say he carries a staff to beat people up with.”

“A _staff_?”

“Aye, a staff.”

“So he’s a _mage_?”

“Don’t be daft, Davin, nobody in their right mind would name an apostate Herald of Andraste.”

Ludovico hid a snort behind a cough and straightened, wiping his–admittedly dry–brow on his sleeve for something to do.

“Sure, Bast, a big, hulking qunari just carries around a _staff_ to beat people up with instead of chopping them to bits with a battleaxe.” The gangly man, Davin, shook his head with a snort. “Or a sword.”

“You never heard of a quarterstaff, ya half-wit?”

“Of course I bloody have, that’s not the point here!”

The conversation devolved into an argument and Vi lost interest. Gathering up the dirty dishes and tankards, he headed to the back. Noam was alive. He was _well_. Better yet, he was in a position to help him, from the sound of it.

 _Noam_. He wondered what his old lover, the one person he had ever truly cared for, thought of him these days. Probably nothing good.

He would have to swallow his pride and _beg_ . But for Lucretia and Gael? He would do _anything_.

***

“Oh come on, Varric, you _have_ to tell me.”

“You can insist all you like, Charmer, I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Are you _sure_? Those books of yours would suggest otherwise.” Dorian smirked from his saddle, shifting his grip on the bridle to rub his hands together. “Oh, damn this cold. Couldn’t your giant castle be somewhere warmer?”

“It’s not that bad, Dorian.” Noam offered him an encouraging smile and a wink. “I bet there’s a fire blazing in the hearth, and you can take a nice, long, bath as soon as we get home.”

“Maybe save the wishful thinking for _after_ we’re settled, Boss. Looks like someone’s waiting for you.” Bull cocked his head towards the gates; a petite figure, straight-backed, prim and proper, clad in blue and gold and carrying a clipboard was indeed standing by the gate. Noam groaned.

“Can’t the world stop ending for ten minutes? I’ll even take five. All I want is _five_ minutes to get inside, leave my horse, and maybe find somewhere to hide and be left alone.”

“And face the wrath of Ruffles when she finds you? I think I’d rather take my chances with the world ending.”

“Oh, please, nothing can _possibly_ be more important than a bath after such a long journey,” Dorian huffed, clearly disgruntled. “I can’t _wait_ to get all this grime off me. And the smell of _dog_! How do you live with it?”

Bull took a deep breath, making a show of exhaling with a long, content sigh. “Ahhhh, eau de Ferelden. Nothing says ‘welcome home’ like the smell of bland food, wet dog, and horse dung.”

Dorian grunted in reply as they reached the gates and Josephine came out to greet them.

“Inquisitor! I’m so glad to see you all back safe,” she smiled, her eyes darting towards Skyhold before going back to him.

“Josephine,” he greeted, dismounting. It didn’t feel right to talk to her from atop his horse; he was already tall enough beside her while standing. “Is something the matter?”

“No! Well, not quite. There is much to be done, I’m afraid, and there is a rather, ah… pressing matter that requires your attention.”

Before he knew it, Josephine had handed his horse off to a stablehand and whisked him away towards Skyhold, drawing him away from his companions. Maker, what could possibly be so urgent? He really did want that bath. And maybe a hearty meal. And wine. _Definitely_ wine. “Pressing, you say?”

“Quite.” She drew to a stop at the foot of the stairs. “A man is here to see you. He claims to know you.”

Noam heaved a sigh, shoulders sagging. Great. Just what he needed. “Everyone claims to know me these days,” he said carefully, looking for some way to wriggle out of this, whatever _this_ was.

“Er… I’m afraid he called you by name, Inquisitor.” She cleared her throat and glanced down at her board, though there seemed to be nothing of interest on it, as far as he could tell. “Noam,” she added, as though to drive the point home.

His brow drew into a frown. Few people in Thedas knew his first name. It was usually Inquisitor this, Herald that, Your Grace that other thing. Sometimes Inquisitor Adaar. _Never_ Noam. “Who is he?”

“I… we’re not sure,” she said, giving him a little shove to start pushing him up the staircase and into the Great Hall. “He strode in, claimed to know you, er, _intimately_ , and… and sat on your throne.”

Mentally, he rolled his eyes. _Oh no! Not the throne!_ “And you _let_ him?”

“He’s armed. We didn’t want to hurt him if he’s… a friend of yours. Or to offend him. Or you, for that matter.” Josephine was rambling, the words stumbling from her mouth in quick succession as the pitch of her voice slowly climbed higher and higher. She was working herself into a state. “And, ah… well. He’s not quite in full control of his… capacities.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s drunk.”

“Ah. Wonderful.”

“I assure you, we didn’t expect him to drink so… heartily.”

“And was this before or after he sat in my most sacred of chairs?” he asked, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Er… before.”

“What does he look like?”

“IIIIIINQUISITORRR!” The slurred, butchered title reached his ears just as they reached the main entrance. But it wasn’t the loudness of the voice that froze him where he stood; it was the voice _itself_. He knew that voice. He would know that voice anywhere, no matter how slurred and drawling. He hadn’t heard it in four years. He thought he would never hear it again.

Ludovico.

***

The man—elf—in question was indeed sitting on the throne, in that very _Vi_ way of sitting, which is to say, not quite sitting at all, but rather _lounging_. A foot on the floor, a leg slung over the armrest, his body leaning into the opposite armrest and a goblet of wine carefully held to give the impression of being careless without spilling a single drop of its contents.

 _No_.

His first instinct was to turn around and walk right back out. Ludovico had _betrayed_ him. He’d betrayed his trust, lied to him, gone behind his back, and then vanished the very next day.

He had broken his _heart_.

But instead, he felt himself smirk, despite the anger, the hurt, the _fury_ that bubbled just beneath the surface. “You look like shit.”

Seeing that they did, indeed, know each other, Josephine glanced at each of them in turn and excused herself, just as Vi got to his feet, laboriously and impertinently at once. “Funny. You look _great_. You’ve just been living in the lap of luxury, haven’t you?”

Noam said nothing, but stood straighter and crossed his arms, gaze on his ex. Ludovico simply kept talking, unaware of the icy cold that settled like a sheet on Noam’s shoulders, of the shard of ice that had been lodged into his heart for years and now seemed to dig in deeper than ever before.

“Your Inquisitorialness.” Vi bowed to him with an elaborate mocking flourish and straightened with a drunken sway. “You’ve been having the time of your damn _life_ here, huh?”

He had not.

“Look at all this!” He exclaimed, gesturing around him with open arms. Some wine sloshed over the rim of his goblet. “Guards, a growing army, your own damn _castle_ !” He gave a bitter laugh. “You sure have come a long way from the mercenary bastard I used to know. What, are low-lives not good enough for you anymore?” He knocked back the contents of the goblet and ambled to a pitcher to refill it. “You have a personal _cellar_ , for fuck’s sake! This is Orlesian fucking wine! Living the life, Noam! I have to give it to you, really, shedding the dead weight of my useless body has done _wonders_ for you!” He raised his goblet to him, as though in a toast, and took a hearty swig; some of the liquid spilled out and trickled down the corner of his mouth.

“Enough.” Noam was barely keeping it together. He was shaking, his stomach was twisted up in knots, and his heart felt as though someone had grasped it tightly and squeezed.

“Ohhh, is that an order, your Heraldic Highness?” The mocking title sounded like poison as it dropped from his lips.

“What do you want, Vi?”

“What, can’t an old friend want to visit?”

“What. Do. You. Want?” His fingers flexed, even with his arms crossed as they were. If he didn’t get out soon, he would do something that he would regret.

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Ludovico set down both goblet and pitcher and took a few steps towards him, trying to act sober and steady. Noam knew him well enough to know that he was neither of those things, even if his outburst had been, in no small part, purely theatrics. “Fine, fine. I’m here to ask for your help.”

The fury won out. It had been _four years_. Four years without Vi. Four years thinking that he either had left him without so much as a goodbye, or had gone and gotten himself killed somewhere. 

“No.” He turned away, ready to walk out now. Now, while he still could. Now, when he was furious, rather than hurting. Now, before the anger fizzled out and the relief showed on his face. Vi was _alive_ . He was here, now, in one piece, drunk off his ass and looking all the worse for wear, but _alive_. 

Noam forced himself to take a step away, onto the stone landing just outside. And then he froze as Vi spoke up again, the line of his back going ramrod straight, every muscle in it tensing.

“Noam…?”

He couldn’t walk away. Fuck him, but he couldn’t walk away. He didn’t move.

“Noam, _please._ ”

He couldn’t ignore him. Couldn’t ignore the panic edging Vi’s voice, the desperation. Vi never said please. Never.

“It’s Lucretia, Noam. And Gael.”

Fuck. Shit. _Balls_ . He would regret this. Slowly, he turned around, prepared to cross his arms and look angry once again. But the look on Ludovico’s face was completely disarming. He had never… he had never seen anything like it. Not in Vi. Something was very wrong. Vi never pleaded or begged. He rarely ever panicked. And now that he was closer, now that he could really _look_ at him… what he saw in Vi’s eyes was haunting. Because what he saw in them was a great, vast expanse of absolutely _nothing_. The life had gone from them. The mischievous, lively glint was no more. His eyes were as dull as his skin, which had once glowed like burnished copper. His hair was limp and matted, and had lost its shine. His face was sallow and gaunt, there were deep, dark bags under his eyes, and, by and large, he looked…

Dead.

Ludovico looked like the living dead. A shadow of the man he once was, an empty husk wearing his face, but twisted by… by hunger, and… he couldn’t even describe it.

For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. Vi was careful and guarded. Noam was absolutely _horrified_ . The anger fizzled out like a flame doused in water. “What _happened_ to you?”

A slow grin spread across Ludovico’s lips, the effect more mortifying than reassuring. “That, my friend, is going to need more wine.”

***

 _Slavery._ Ludovico had been taken from his home and sold into _slavery,_ together with his twin sister and his nephew.

_Maker preserve him._

Right now, as he paced his giant rooms, as the late afternoon sun slanted in through his tall windows and the stained glass at the very top cast colorful shadows across his flagstoned floor and expensive rug, Lucretia and Gael were toiling away in Tevinter as _slaves_.

And they had been doing so for the past four years.

He didn’t have enough prayers for them; none felt adequate or good. He wished there was something he could do to _help_. But there wasn’t, was there? Then again… he was the Inquisitor. He commanded a small army, had a number of rulers and nobles and other influential figures at his beck and call. Maybe… maybe Josephine would know what to do. Or Leliana. Not Cullen. This was a delicate situation; they couldn’t march their troops into Tevinter to free a couple of elves.

Noam turned on his heel at the top of the stairs with a frustrated groan and ran a hand down his face. _Maker_ , he still really wanted that bath. But he couldn’t stand still, hadn’t been able to since Ludovico had left his presence to be shown to his new rooms. If he kept on like this, he would wear a groove into his floor. Thoughts raced through his mind, too fleeting for him to catch, each one running into the next, then getting away like skittering spiders. Thoughts of Lu and Gael. Plans being formulated and promptly scrapped. Feelings and ideas and…

… and thoughts of Vi.

Maker, but he couldn’t fault him for what had happened. And yet he was still so… so _angry._ If only Vi had _listened_ , all those years ago, if he had stayed true to his word and left those noblemen alone… none of this would have come to pass.

But it was done. Ludovico _had_ lied to him, to Beata, to _everyone_ . He _had_ slipped away and gone behind all their backs to murder that slaver. Noam had known as soon as the man had been found dead in his bed. Vi’s disappearance that very day had only confirmed his suspicions. The betrayal had been painful; it had sliced his heart open and caused him indescribable grief. For a time, the raw pain of heartbreak had been his only companion. He had thought that he would never heal from it, never love or be happy again.

And now he couldn’t fault him. Not after finding out that Vi had paid dearly for his actions. With his blood, sweat and tears. With his _family_.

That didn’t make him any less angry. He wanted to _punch_ him, for lying to him, for acting behind their backs, for letting himself be taken like that. He wanted to break his nose and beat him into a bloody pulp for all the pain that he had caused him.

He wanted to _kiss_ him. He wanted to wrap his arms about Vi’s frame and drag him close to his chest, he wanted to cry with relief, he wanted to hold him and never let go again.

He couldn’t forgive him. Not yet. He couldn’t go back to the way things had once been, no matter how much a part of him _wished_ that he could. Much had changed.

And Ludovico had completely lost his trust.

The sun sank lower and lower on the horizon, until the far-away mountains blocked its golden-orange glow. Noam kept pacing until he was wrapped in twilight, the candles in his room unlit, thoughts still racing through his mind.

A liveried servant found him standing in complete darkness, staring out at the starry sky. Dinner was ready.

***

Dinner came and went in a blur. Vi had taken a seat to his left—or perhaps Josephine had sat him there—and seemed to be doing his best to ignore any bad blood there might be between them. They both chatted animatedly with the rest of his usual companions, trading jokes and laughs in between bites. Every once in a while, Noam stole a glance at Vi. It felt just like old times, and the nostalgia kept trying to set in, good memories of the past rushing back and threatening to choke him up.

Because it _wasn’t_ just like old times, and they both knew it. They were just good at keeping appearances, especially when they had company. Noam imagined that neither of them particularly wanted to field any awkward questions, so they shared stories of the good old days, spoke of how they’d met, and very carefully avoided any talk they might consider dangerous territory. It was a rather bittersweet thing, chatting like this. Remembering. Having him very much alive, and more or less well, sharing a meal and close enough that, if he really wanted to, he could just… reach out and touch him.

He didn’t want to.

But he did.

But he really, _really_ didn’t.

The struggle was endless and agonizing, like a particularly slow kind of torture. Old wounds that had been starting to heal were torn open again and heavily salted for good measure. Maker, it hurt. Every time he caught Vi’s gaze, his heart squeezed. It felt like drowning, like being stabbed with no wound, like… like dying all over again, just as he had felt when Vi had vanished all those years ago. 

Slowly, conversation dwindled and guests excused themselves and retired to their rooms, until only a handful of people remained, Vi and himself included. Silence settled between them, their end of the long table otherwise empty. Unable to bear it any longer, Noam got to his feet.

“Noam, wait.” Vi stood abruptly, his chair scraping on the stone floor. “Let’s talk.”

He closed his eyes briefly, silently cursing in his mind. Try as he might, he couldn’t turn Ludovico away. Even if he was still angry. Even if it killed him a little bit. “Walk with me.”

Vi relaxed visibly, the lines of his face softening as he pasted a smile on his lips and reached for his arm as though to link it with his own, the way they used to.

Noam subtly pulled out of his grasp and did his best to ignore the knot that formed in his throat. His arm burned where Vi had touched it, and if the man in question had been hurt by the rejection, he didn’t show it openly. Not that he had watched for his reaction; he didn’t want to look too closely, or for too long. “This way.”

He led the way out onto the inner garden, Vi falling into step beside him. Where Noam kept his hands clasped behind his back, for fear that he might reach for his ex, Vi’s swung freely and easily at his sides. For a time, they were silent, even as they came to a stop under an apple tree. The gardens were, thankfully, empty. There was a soft breeze blowing, stirring the leaves and grass. The moon overhead, bright and nearly full, watched over them from a cloudless sky dotted with glittering stars, and served as their only source of light.

“Well? You wanted to talk. So talk.”

“You’re angry with me.”

“Of _course_ I’m bloody angry with you! You _lied_ to me—”

“Now, now, _lie_ is a bit of a strong word—”

“No, it is the _right_ word.”

To his credit, Ludovico flinched and shut up, lips pressing into a thin line.

“You lied to me, Vi. You lied to _all_ of us. You went behind our— _my_ —back, and did exactly what you promised you wouldn’t do. Tell me why, exactly, I shouldn’t be angry.”

“I had to do it, Noam! I had to put an end to it.”

“You didn’t _have_ to do anything!” His voice rose, pitch also rising as his temper bubbled and his blood boiled. “Actually, yes, there was _one_ thing you had to do. You had to keep your word. But you didn’t. So yeah, I’m mad. What the hell did you expect?”

“Do you think I’ve _enjoyed_ these past four years? That I had _fun_ being enslaved? You don’t know what it was like, Noam—”

“No, I don’t!” He cut him off with a sharp glare. “I don’t know what it was like, but you don’t know what it was like for _me_ , either.”

“Oh, because you’ve had _such_ an awful time, living here in the lap of luxury, with so many people at your beck and call. Twitch a finger, and someone will come and lick your toes if you ask!”

“Oh, piss off! I _haven’t_ had a good time. You have no idea the kind of shit I’ve been through. The kind of shit _you_ put me through!”

“That’s rich. I didn’t put _you_ through anything! All I did was disappear.”

“YES! EXACTLY!” Noam threw his hands up into the air and took a step back, then another, putting distance between them. “You disappeared,” he said, eyes on Vi’s. “The day after you betrayed us. Gone, just like that. How do you think that felt? Really, tell me, how do you think it felt?”

“Noam—”

“ _No._ Don’t. You don’t know what it was like.”

“So tell me, then! Spit it out and let me have it, since you so obviously want to have a go at me anyway. I’ve lost everything I had already, so hey, beat my dead body while you’re at it, why don’t you?”

“Oh, save me your guilt-tripping bullshit, Vi. I’m not saying the past four years were a walk in the park for you, but you can’t just waltz back into my life and expect me to be waiting for you with open arms!”

“Frankly, I expected you to have moved on.”

“Well, you expected _wrong_ ,” he spat, hands clenched into fists at his sides. He needed to move, needed to _do_ something. But he was rooted to the spot, and try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to turn his back on him. “I _loved_ you, you know? Part of me still does, and I’m so _angry_ about it.” He paused and drew a deep, shuddering breath, looking to calm himself. It didn’t work, not when Vi was looking at him like that. Like he was… surprised. Amazed. Worse, _hopeful._

He forced himself to look away and glared at a pile of rubble instead. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and quiet, filled with the pain he had been nursing for the past four years. “Do you know how _hard_ it’s been for me?”

Ludovico didn’t reply. After a long, heavy silence, Noam forced himself to look back at him. Whatever Vi saw in his eyes, it made him stand straighter, take a step forward and reach for him, then stop. His outstretched arm fell limply to his side and he just stood there, watching him. Finally, he shook his head.

“At first, I thought you would be back in a few days,” he began, steeling himself and trying to find the proper words to tell him everything. “I shrugged it off, thinking maybe you needed to lie low for a few days, let the storm pass. Wouldn’t be the first time you did that, though it was strange for you to take Lu and Gael with you.” He sighed and started pacing, unable to tell him this without moving. “But then you didn’t come home. And it _hurt_ . You’d lied to me, you’d gone behind my back and done exactly what you’d promised you wouldn’t do, and then you’d _left_ , without even saying goodbye.” He chanced a glance at him, swallowed thickly, and kept talking. “When it was clear you wouldn’t be coming back, I _panicked_ . What if something had happened to you? What if you were _dead_ ? I had no way of knowing, no way of making sure. I didn’t know where you’d gone off to, and I had no-one to contact about it. Your house was empty and untouched, no sign of a struggle, no _nothing_ —”

“There _was_ a struggle, you know. I wouldn’t just go quietly.”

“Well, they cleaned it up!” He rounded on him, raising his voice once more. “It was empty, and it looked untouched. Everything was the same as usual, but you just… weren’t there. None of you were.”

“Noam—”

“Let me finish.” He turned away once more and went back to pacing. “Do you know how bad it feels, Vi? How _awful_ ? For _months_ I wondered what had happened to you. Where you were. If you were alright. I turned things over and over in my head, trying to understand _why_.”

“You know why.”

“But I didn’t then,” he replied, an accusatory note in his tone as he came to a stop and turned to look at him. “I didn’t know. Every day I thought of you. I was _heartbroken_. The one person I had ever loved stabbed me in the back—”

“I didn’t—”

“You _did._ You stabbed me in the back and then _vanished_ . And I kept wondering if maybe I had done something. Or said something. Something bad and awful enough that you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. I couldn’t find it, though. But I kept wondering. Was it simply that you didn’t want to see me or talk to me ever again? Why would you just _leave_ like that, without so much as leaving a _note_ ? I was sure you had your reasons, but I couldn’t find them. Didn’t know them. I wondered if you hated me, for some reason. I wondered if you were dead. And if you were, then I would never, ever know.” He stopped again and drew deep, gulping breaths. His heart felt as though it was breaking all over again, beating fast and fit to explode from the pain of it all. Recalling the whole situation, talking about how he had felt, how alone he had been, how absolutely _distraught_ ... it hurt. Having Vi right there in front of him hurt too. He felt like he was choking on air, like his heart was in his throat and his stomach was where his heart should be. And yet, he also felt… _relieved._ So much so that his legs were unsteady and his eyes filled with tears. He wanted nothing better than to sob, to grab Vi and curl himself around him, to hunch over and cry into the crook of his neck.

Instead, he dropped into a stone bench and braced his weight on his thighs. Vi took another step toward him, but stopped short once more and gestured for him to continue, the pain that Noam felt mirrored on Vi’s expression. He took a moment before speaking back up. “The worst part was the hope, the first two years,” he said softly, finding Vi’s gaze in the dark. “Every day, a part of me hoped that you would return. That that was the day when you would come back, that I would turn a corner and bump into you, or enter a place you frequented and find you right there, sitting exactly where you should be, as though you hadn’t left at all.” Another pause, another deep breath and slow exhale. “And then the bargaining started. With _myself_ . I spent _months_ trying to talk myself into moving on. I _had_ to. I had to move on. I deserved something better, deserved happiness. But I couldn’t move on, because I was _heartbroken_ , and every time I closed my eyes you were there. I laid in bed and all I could hear was your voice. I missed the warmth of your body against mine. I was _lonely_ , Vi. The gang fell apart with you gone; we all went separate ways. I’m still in touch with Beata, but things were never the same after you left. And one day I realized that, wherever you were, whatever had happened, you weren’t coming home.” He sniffed, tears welling in his eyes. The wound felt raw, the pain fresh. “I started coming to terms with the fact that I would never see you again. I told myself that you were probably fine, just to feel better about it, to convince myself that you weren’t dead and gone from this world, buried in a ditch somewhere. And I just… I _did_ deserve to be happy. I deserved to move on, to fall in love again, to… to find _someone_. Someone who loved me too, even if I would never forget you.” He sniffed again, despite his efforts to the contrary, and watched with tired, glassy eyes as Vi collapsed into a bench opposite his, looking every bit as pained and haunted as he was.

“I didn’t, though. Find someone.” He wiped his eyes angrily, willing himself to stop crying. He’d done his crying already. He’d cried him a river in private, when nobody was around. He didn’t need this, didn’t need to cry again. And yet… he couldn’t stop. It took him a moment to find his voice again. “But I found the Valo Kas, and for once in my life I thought maybe things were looking up. I was _healing_ . I was starting to feel better. I had stopped crying for you, and I was moving forward. I had new friends. Still do. And then…” he gestured in the air with his marked hand, the anchor glowing faintly green in the moonlight. “ _This_ happened. And it all came crashing down again. I almost _died,_ Vi. _Twice_ . In only a handful of weeks. And then _you_ showed up, and I— I can’t do this. I’m so damn _tired_ . This isn’t a walk in the park, I’m not living the life. Every day, I’m struggling. I never wanted any of this bullshit. Do you honestly think I’d want to be in the eye of the storm? You know me; I’d rather be on the sidelines, enjoying all the perks with none of the responsibilities.” He sighed and looked down at the grass between his booted feet. “But I never get what _I_ want. And every time I think I’m finally getting to a good place in my life, it’s snatched right out of my hands and I’m left with nothing again.” He slumped forward, the energy gone from him. Maker, he was tired. Maybe he’d leave that bath for tomorrow. His bed sounded like the best place in all of Thedas right now.

“Noam, I…” Vi broke him out of his thoughts, and his head snapped up to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“… yeah. So am I.” With that, he got to his feet. “Good night, Vi. I hope you like your rooms.” 

Ludovico watched him go. The conversation—however one-sided—was clearly over, and it left him feeling… empty. For a long moment, he stared at the door Noam had disappeared behind. And then the weight of everything he had said came crashing down on him. It was all he could do to lean back against the tree at his back and press a hand to his eyes to keep from crying. He was a _bastard_ . None of this would have happened to Noam if it hadn’t been for him. If he hadn’t gone behind his back, if he hadn’t killed that nobleman, then Noam would never have had reason to leave Antiva. He would never have ended up here at all. This was all his fault. Noam’s pain and misery… they were on _him_. Another line on his endless list of sins. The one man he had ever loved, in pain and suffering because of his careless actions.

That night, with the stars and moon as witness, Vi vowed to make it all up to him. Somehow, he would make things _right_. This he promised, in the name of the Maker and his holy wife Andraste. 

Maybe, just maybe, one day he would be able to let himself hope again. For a brighter future and a better tomorrow. Together.


End file.
